


Bullet Spall

by ianavi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boredom, Cigarettes, Depression, Loneliness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:36:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianavi/pseuds/ianavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two miserable men, yet to meet in London...</p><p>The horror of John's deployment in Afghanistan, the burden of lives lost, of wounds that wouldn't heal, the frustration of how meaningless it all felt in the end. And yet it was this morning's reality that felt oppressive, claustrophobic.</p><p>Stirring with a whirl Sherlock sat up and ran his hands through his hair in frustration shaking out the greasy curls. Swiping the lighter from the coffee table he rummaged under it for a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes, wretchedly coughing as he lit one, before sliding back onto the sofa with an annoyed grunt.</p><p>---</p><p>My attempt at cannon...</p><p>Rating, tags and characters will be updated per chapter, so check if returning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer. Under the blankets his left hand trembled against his hip. The front of his shirt was drenched with sweat. He ignored it all.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sounds of early morning in the city. Traffic in the distance. The upstairs renter walking about, getting ready for work. The low hiss of the central heating system. And the fucking sink tap dripping.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Eyes still shut, he sighed pushing the blankets off. Not many reasons to get up. No job, no appointment with his therapist, no plans at all for the day. No one to talk to.

Tap. Tap.

In the end it was his leg - the one that was useless in supporting him when he stood, the one that required a cane, the one that made it apparent to anyone who saw him limping down the street that he was an invalid, the one that now throbbed with pain - that pushed him to get up. He sat on the edge of the narrow bed and looked at the single wall-facing window. Foggy. Not raining. Not that he had anywhere to go. He closed his eyes and rubbed circles into the aching thigh. Fucking useless.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

John reached for the hospital-issue aluminum cane leaning against the nightstand and with a grunt stood up to drag himself the few steps across the faded gray carpet towards the tap.

Just the single bed. The night stand with his watch and a glass of water. The small empty desk, a crooked reading lamp, an uncomfortable desk chair. A door slammed somewhere down the building's corridor. He twitched.

He reached for the tap and twisted it closed. Then brought the hand up to rub at his eyes. It was cold. He couldn't really afford to keep the thermostat up, even in this miserable bedsit.

In the military he'd missed the indulgence of a long morning shower, the hot water, the privacy. Well, if he had anything now it was privacy. Supporting himself against the wall of the cramped shower cubicle with his "good arm" he stood under the water watching the soap suds spiral down the drain and hoping the strain he felt, not just in his muscles, would subside. Sometimes it did. But not today. His right thigh did not look any different then the left. No scarring, no visible marks. It still ached.

As did the disfigured shoulder he faced in the mirror every morning as he shaved under the single bright light bulb. A tangle of angry red and pale pink tissue. He'd lost weight since he got shot, lost his muscle tone. He looked old. And broken.

The horror of his deployment in Afghanistan, the burden of lives lost, of wounds that wouldn't heal, the frustration of how meaningless it all felt in the end. And yet it was this morning's reality that felt oppressive, claustrophobic.

He dressed in the clothes hanging off the back of the bathroom door, jeans, shirt and a cardigan, and limped back into the small kitchen, bare feet on the chilly linoleum.

There was no milk left for his tea. The fridge was almost empty, a jar or two in the back. Waiting for the kettle to boil and holding a single teabag between his fingers John looked back towards the room. The desk. The desk drawer holding his gun.

Reaching for the tap he loosened it just a bit until it dripped again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.


	2. Chapter 2

The plume of smoke curled slowly towards the ceiling.

It had been five days already. Nothing. No phone calls, no messages. Well, no relevant messages. He was stretched out on his back on the sofa, as he'd been for the past six hours thirty five minutes of utterly undisturbed boredom.

Sherlock took another deep drag of the cigarette eyeing the familiar pattern of cracks in the ceiling's plaster.

Why was it so bloody cold in the flat? He rubbed his bare feet against each other and pulled the blue dressing gown tighter around himself. Oh, yes, there had perhaps been a bill...

So he ignored his freezing feet. And the uneasy feeling in his empty stomach. And the migraine that had been eating away at his sanity since the morning. And pulled on the last of the cigarette before extinguishing it in a half empty cup of something or other on the coffee table. It hissed briefly. He groaned. It was too much to hope he'd abandoned something combustible there. Probably just tea.

Six hours fifty two minutes. He was beyond bored.

Tea. He wouldn't mind a cup.

Except his mental inventory assured him no tea, or sugar for that matter, were to be found in his flat.

He wriggled a bit to loosen up his stiff back.

Bored!

And miserable. And cold. And alone.

He glanced across the room, armchairs and tables, shelves and corners filled with books, stacks of papers, trinkets and curios left over from some of his cases. He looked at various items and thought back to the crime scenes. Ah, boring, boring, boring. The settled dust was just another proof no one but him had been in the flat for days.

The skull on the mantel looked back at him with its empty sockets. He flipped to face the back of the sofa.

Another hour passed in silence.

It was almost midnight and he could hear the rubbish men handling the bins outside, the never-ceasing hum of London's traffic, someone's voice in the street. The sandwich place downstairs was closed by now but he still heard the neighbour shuffle about and the television from his landlady's flat. Yes, regretfully he'd been rude with her recently and an apology was in order...

The city was alive and busy around him but there was no case to solve, no place to go. No one to talk to.

Stirring with a whirl he sat up and ran his hands through his hair in frustration shaking out the greasy curls. Swiping the lighter from the coffee table he rummaged under it for a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes, wretchedly coughing as he lit one, before sliding back onto the sofa with an annoyed grunt.

With a puff he blew a perfectly round smoke ring and watched it float away and dissipate.


End file.
